Fingers tell the guitar man’s story.
Puddles are the snowflakes
of cold tears. Lost winds brush against
willow trees with breezes spinning
from the equator.
Cold walks. Hard rain. Diners without
vacant seats. Neon lights. Trucks
pushing a hard dark night. Flannel
shirts and too many stop signs.
Everybody wants to be found.
Open boxcars harbor half closed eyes on the
way to warmer sands where shoes are
tossed behind concrete benches.
Roger Singer 